


Witness

by Durinsbride



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, The Objectification of Bellamy Blake, now with more smut!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:12:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durinsbride/pseuds/Durinsbride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She just barely caught herself before she fell forward; her hands caught on the rough bark of a fat, elderly tree just a few paces from the riverbed.  Her breath tangling in her throat, her hands scrambling for purchase on the board face of the trunk, it took her a moment to right herself.  She drew a breath in relief when she finally slowed her forward momentum, only to lose it the next moment when she raised her eyes to the horizon, and saw Bellamy standing on the riverbank, wet, naked, gleaming.</p><p>Wholly beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witness

**Author's Note:**

> Slight AU. Lexa is alive, because I don't want to deal with the considerable grief and mourning her death entails. Nor am I talented enough to do it justice. So, for all intents and purposes, Lexa is alive, though **warning** : she is barely featured in this story.

In late afternoon, when the heat of the sun was slowly cooling from blistering to merely warm, Roan surprised them by calling for a halt.

Clarke, who had long been marching along on autopilot, her mind drifting between the present and the past as seamlessly as one breath followed another, wasn’t aware that they’d stopped moving until she’d nearly run straight into Bellamy’s broad back.

“What?” Bellamy snapped, squinting at Roan over the slope of his shoulder, reaching out for Clarke as she stumbled, one large, cool hand enveloping her elbow in a firm, steadying grip as she wobbled for a moment from the sudden stop, trying to catch her balance. He looked just about as tired and filthy as she was.

“I said,” The Ice King answered, seeming to relish in his exhausted, and therefore captive audience, “let us stop and break camp. Your Wanheda is nearly dead on her feet, and you don’t look much better, boy.” A pause. “That leg paining you, huh?”

That last was spoken with a wry twist to his mouth, as Roan’s eyes, no doubt as blue and cold as his homeland, scanned the length of Bellamy’s body with an assessing, smug sort of malice, his heated gaze lingering perhaps a moment too long on the strong brace of his thighs, his groin. Beside her, Bellamy stiffened, his dark eyes flashing like tinder as they met and returned the other man’s stare in equal measure, and despite her momentary annoyance at the resurgence of this testosterone-fueled...duel...between them (which had been going on for days) Clarke was oddly reassured. Bellamy never did back down from a challenge. Exhausted as he was, he was _always_ ready to fight.

At that thought, Clarke found her head clearing a little, her own exhaustion brought to heal as she grit her teeth, holding on to her ire with every ounce of self control she possessed as Roan casually took a swig from his water skin. Clarke wanted to work with this man, had said she trusted him, and still did, despite everything. They needed him, and that was only reason they had formed this plan with him in the first place. 

That, and that she couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving him alone with Bellamy. Not when he looked at Bellamy the way he did—

Like he couldn’t wait to kill him.

Kill him or…fuck him, that is.

Tamping down on that startling, wayward thought (perhaps she was more exhausted than she realized) Clarke put a hand up between them, feeling a little like a referee in a boxing ring as she looked at each man in turn, hardening her expression to match the atmosphere.

“Cut it out, you two.”

“I wasn’t doing anyth—“

“I mean it, Bellamy.”

Roan snorted.

Clarke whirled on him, sharpening her tone. “And the same goes for you, Ice Man. _Don’t. Test. Me._ ” She punctuated each word with a hard little jab to his chest. Which was as hard as rock, she couldn’t help but notice.

“Anything you say, My Lady Death,” he answered, sweeping low in a formal bow, a sunny smile creasing his swarthy features.

Clarke counted backward from ten. If anyone was going to do any killing around here, the odds were markedly in her favor. She had a Bowie knife in her boot, and several other shivs on her person, just as Lexa had taught her. She had the means to do some damage if necessary, so exhausted but determined, she stood her ground, holding on to her angry expression for as long as she could. They really couldn’t afford to waste time on petty confrontations like this…

When neither man moved nor made another sound, Clarke counted it a victory, and nodded her head with the same authority as if the thought were hers in the first place: “it’s time to stop and break camp. We’re not covering much ground anyway, and we could all use the rest.”

Roan’s curling smile and pointed gaze seemed to suggest that some of them needed rest more than others, and before Bellamy could react she placed both hands on his back and pushed him forward and away from the taller man. The further apart they were from each other the better, she knew.

In moments they found a good, defensible location and had the beginnings of a fire quietly smoldering, each accomplished with the speed of long habit and routine. They’d been traveling for nearly a week now. Clarke shook her head. A week, and there was still this odd tension, pulling taut, between the two of them.

Bellamy tapped her shoulder. “I’m gonna go to the stream. Be back in a bit.”

His words registered a moment later and she nodded, but he was already gone, his long strides eating ground beneath him. She watched his retreating figure for a moment before she settled back in front of the fire, feeling herself lapse back into the fog of her fatigue, even as her stomach rumbled unpleasantly. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. Why eat when getting to Polis as soon as humanly possible was all that mattered? To hell with Roan and his theatrics. Getting to Polis, setting her people free, that was _al_ l that mattered. More than food. More than anything or anyone else.

She glanced over her shoulder. Bellamy grew smaller and smaller as he approached the horizon, vanishing altogether as he crested the hill and continued down the other side.

Well. _Almost_ anyone else.

She shook herself from her torpor and rummaged in the bag at her feet, looking for some scraps or leftovers. They’d had plenty of jerky when she set out, but looking at it now, dried and withered in her hand like old skin, it was the last thing she wanted to choke down before going to sleep.

Roan must have seen her expression; he shot to his feet with barely a sound (did he ever get tired?) hunting knife in hand. “Hungry?” he asked, shooting her a wink. “Let me catch you something.”

Before she could reply he was already half way to the tree line, damn him. Damn stubborn men and their longer legs, always striding away from her when she wanted to say something, or make a point, or try to reason with them when they were immovable, and proud. 

Or stupidly noble…

She glanced up, looking for Bellamy, startled when she realized that she didn’t see him nearby. Then she frowned, feeling confused as she struggled with her considerable fatigue. Wait, wasn’t he just here? No, he’d been walking away, right? Where had he gone?

It took a moment, but then she remembered. The stream. He’d said something about the stream. 

Her pulse started to quicken.

He’d said something about the stream just before _Roan_ shot to his feet with his hunting knife, ostensibly to go hunt something for supper…

Now it was Clarke’s turn to rocket to her feet, her head clearing a bit when she took a deep, steadying breath, ignoring the bolt of panic that lanced her throat with a sudden intensity.

Roan _hated_ Bellamy, or seemed to. Had stated on multiple occasions that he wasn’t needed, that he was just a liability on this venture. Seemed to harbor a fierce dislike for the younger man, in fact—

Clarke spun on her heel and took off in the same direction as Bellamy had earlier, scanning ahead for the telltale dip of the landscape that presaged a riverbed. She could hear the sound of rolling water in the distance. 

_There._

She would find him there. Before Roan did, before he could do anything—

She took another deep breath and pushed it out through her teeth. She was more alert, more awake with every step, fighting her building unease. All she could see was Roan holding that long, wicked knife to his throat. One quick motion was all it would take.

Her pace increasing in tune with her thoughts, Clarke wasn’t watching for the changing slope of the ground when the sudden down curve made her stumble. She just barely caught herself before she fell forward; her hands caught on the rough bark of a fat, elderly tree just a few paces from the riverbed. Her breath tangling in her throat, her hands scrambling for purchase on the board face of the trunk, it took her a moment to right herself. She drew a breath in relief when she finally slowed her forward momentum, only to lose it the next moment when she raised her eyes to the horizon, and saw Bellamy standing on the riverbank, wet, naked, gleaming.

Wholly beautiful.

She choked back a sound that was suspiciously like a squeak as she darted, quick as a flash, behind the wide trunk of the tree that had just moments ago slowed her fall, her face flaming with embarrassment. She concealed herself as best she could, her pulse racing from her surprise, her chagrin. It was an accident, just an accident. He was obviously bathing, and unharmed...

Yet she found her feet immobile, still reeling for what she'd glimpsed in that electric, yet elastic moment. She pushed her face into the moss-covered bark, strangely mortified as her eidetic memory helpfully supplied a full color copy of what she’d just witnessed. And hard as she tried, closing her eyes tightly, nearly straining with the effort, the image persisted in exquisite detail.

Dark, wild hair, wet and gleaming, a touch too long over the back of his neck.

A broad, golden back. 

Wide, strong shoulders. 

A lean, narrow waist set above a taut, muscular rear.

She swallowed, her mouth dry.

Just a glimpse, but she'd seen enough to confirm that he had a form as precise and pristine as those of the Roman sculptures he so loved and admired. The body of a sculpture come to life. And not of pale, cold marble, but of warm, golden flesh, muscled and malleable and...begging for touch.

She sighed, overcome with the need to step out from behind the tree and do just that. 

Trace those same curves and planes with her own hands rather than just her eyes, because she'd never seen anything so beautiful, in all her study of the arts. He was like some exotic Silkie of ancient Legend; the water darkened his sinuous curls to midnight black, made his body glisten as each droplet caught and reflected the light of the setting sun; the same vibrant hues traced the curves and planes of his form in a kiss of molten fire that flashed when he moved.

A beat later she pulled her face away from the tree, frowning as she struggled to gather her composure. 

This was ridiculous. He was considerably attractive, of course. Considerably. She’d known this for a long time now. Almost since their first day on the ground. It wasn’t something that she even noticed anymore. Hardly noticed.

And it was bound to happen sometime, one of them catching the other unaware. She was surprised that it hadn't happened earlier, in fact. There was little privacy and far less modesty to be had living out in the wide open, under the blue sky she'd always dreamt of but had never seen until she was forced to come here, to this beautiful, terrible--deadly planet.

But not a single deliberate breath, nor her self-directed reprimand, did little to calm her racing heart, or quell the strange, persistent flutter in her abdomen. Come _on._ This was Bellamy, who was just... _Bellamy._ He was obviously bathing. Nothing surprising in that. They'd been traveling in brutal heat all day, and they were all covered in a thin layer of summer soil, blown about by the wind.

And she was a healer, or had been (so long ago, it seemed, another life, another reality, another Clarke) and a nude male form wasn't anything she hadn't seen before—(She'd certainly seen worse, far worse, since landing on the Earth's surface. This was nothing. So why was she so affected?)

Because she’d never seen Bellamy quite like this before, in such a sensual, brazen display of honeyed skin, so warm and wet--but the point--the _point_ had been to ascertain his safety, and that had been nominally accomplished—

So it was time to move on. Because he was bathing. Bathing innocently and unaware of any potential audience, no matter how well-meaning. Therefore she would take one more (quick and disinterested) look around, and make sure he was alone and (another swallow) unmolested, and return to camp as quietly as she'd come in the first place.

Raising her chin and steeling her resolve, Clarke quickly cast her eyes around the clearing in every direction, looking for another (Roan) form lurking in the trees, one not so appreciative but rather malicious. Maybe even...murderous.

But when the only answer to her questing gaze was the sound of birds roosting in the trees, and crickets sounding off for mates in the tall grass that bordered the gentle murmur of the water, she felt more than a little foolish for her concern. There was nothing untoward (Roan) in the woods. Bellamy was, for now, quite safe (from Roan).

So.

Time to go.

Now.

 _Right_ now.

She leaned sideways, curling her body around the edge of the tree, hardly daring to breathe, her eyes level with the horizon. Hesitant, expectant.

There.

He bent forward as she watched, avidly, cupping water in his palms before pouring it over his head. She heard his sharp gasp as the water met his skin (cold!) and watched as his broad hands smoothed it over the edge of his face and jaw, as the water divided and ran in pearly rivulets between his pectorals, and curved inward over his obliques, and fell with speed...downward...down...

She drew a shaky breath, mouth dry as she watched him shiver at the chill of the water, the movement racing through his body like a current, flowing through his arms and chest, his shiver so intense his stomach contracted...his cock...bobbing from the motion, heavy and fat between his thighs.

A sigh escaped her then, as her eyes fastened on the dark center of his groin, fascinated by the heft and shape of him. Again, she was nearly overtaken by the desire to touch him. She could almost feel his cock in the center of her hand, a length of steel and silk. His cock would be sensitive and responsive, bending to the curve of her palm as she stroked him, as she felt blood gather beneath his soft, heated skin.

She groaned softly, her eyes falling closed, her fingers digging convulsively into the rough texture of the bark beneath her fingers, wanting malleable flesh under her hands instead.

"Well now," came a heated whisper on the cusp of her ear, " _there_ you are."

Eyes widening, reaching for the shiv hidden at her waist, Clarke stumbled backward as two massive arms wound over her from behind before she had a chance to respond, to understand what was happening. In the next moment one huge hand curved over her mouth, closing off her ability to gather breath, the other closing over her wrist in a vice like grip, forcing her to drop her blade. Without it, she had no immediate means to defend herself, so she began to struggle in earnest. She managed to land a blow to his solar plexus (because there was no doubt it was a man that had captured her) but went slack when he spoke, harsh and low, in an urgent whisper, recognizing his voice at once.

"Don't make a _sound,_ little Wanheda."

Roan.

She shivered at the unspoken threat behind his words, the whispered tones belying the cunning, ruthless strength that she knew he possessed. But it wasn't from fear, but something else entirely as his body, impossibly big and warm, enveloped hers completely, surrounding her with a wall of hardened muscle and virile strength. It was like being caught in the embrace of a lion.

"It's just me." A heated breath, a soft chuckle, washed over the back of neck, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, the thrumming in her veins increasing at the press of his thighs against her backside.

Roan chuckled softly, knowingly, pressing her close. "Just one third your raiding party." His loosened his grip a fraction as she continued to push against his hold on her jaw, both of her hands wrapped around one wide wrist, attempting to pull it from her mouth.

"I come back to an empty campsite," he continued in the same sibilant whisper, his eyes tracing over her face with interest, seeming to enjoy her impotent struggles, how the hairs on the back of her neck responded to his teasing breath, "thinking you two had decided to cut and run, leave me behind. Instead I find... _this_." 

Another dark chuckle. "I thought you were hungry." One arm slipped slowly downward and stole around her waist in a teasing caress, exploratory, curious, as it curved over her hip and pulled her body flush against his. "And you _are_ , pretty girl, aren't you? But not for food, eh?"

Sensing her capitulation, or perhaps just her need to respond, Roan pulled his hand away from her mouth, only to wrap it gently around the lower curve of her jaw, cupping her chin almost delicately in his wide grip. His other hand kept moving, falling lower and lower on her abdomen, fingers splaying star-like over her belly in a possessive grip. He squeezed the slight rise of her belly, and grunted in approval. Her thighs pressed together at the sound, so possessive and masculine, lusty; her core pulsed at what that noise implied and promised.

"Get your hands off of me," she rasped, the second she had the air to do so, pushing back against his hold, attempting to dislodge him, even though she wasn't sure that was what she really wanted. Her nerves felt on fire from his proximity, the overwhelming hardness of his body. She was mortified to find that she was trembling at his nearness. "L-let me go."

Another heated chuckle brushed against her neck, and despite herself, Clarke closed her eyes at the sensation, so close to the base of her ear, the fragile curve of her neck. 

"Not just yet, little one, I like the way you feel." Roan pulled her body back against his, pushing his hips closer to her plump rear, sounding a gusty sign, "and I think you like it _too_ , don't you?" When he rolled his hips forward again she gasped at the heat of his erection, much to her mortification, pressed close to her curves. "Besides," he added contemplatively, his voice lowering to an appreciative purr, "the view is awfully pretty, is it not?”

He gestured forward with his chin, to the river in front of them, bending over her shoulder and leaning sideways to glance around the curve of the tree. Clarke watched, incredulous, as his smirk widened when he caught sight of Bellamy, his gaze tracing heatedly over the same alluring figure she had just been admiring only moments before.

Roan sighed, hugging her tighter to his chest. “ _Awfully_ pretty,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on the sharp indent of Bellamy’s waist, on the jut of his heavy sex bobbing softly just above the water line. “Too bad it’s attached to such a whining, stubborn little prick, eh?” he chuckled again, nosing at her hairline. “Or not so little, now that I’ve got a proper view…”

Clarke tried to keep her eyes away from that very pretty view, indeed, and failed, gazing openly at the appendage in question.

No. Not so little at all.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Clarke replied, finding her voice at last, tearing her eyes away, unaccountably guilty. “Either of us. This isn’t right, Roan. Let’s go back.”

Roan huffed in amusement behind her. "If that's so, why are you here, Wanheda?"

 _Because of you_ , she thought, and that wicked knife, that cold gaze. But she couldn't tell him that. Their alliance was precarious as it was; her doubting him would only endanger their fragile peace.

"I just wanted to make sure he was alright," she answered instead.

"Mmm hmm," Roan responded, rolling his hips against the curve of her ass in a slow, leisurely movement, savoring the feel of their bodies pressed tightly together. "You mean safe from me." Clarke gasped, and he grunted softly at the perfect friction that resulted. A beat later, he did it again, to their mutual pleasure.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, Wanheda." He admonished. "What’s so wrong about it, eh? I like what I see, and I _know_ you do,” one flat, broad finger traced over the curve of her cheek, which was heated from her blush, stained red from her equally florid thoughts. “Why not enjoy it while we can, eh?”

Clarke’s embarrassment increased. To be so transparent, it was mortifying. “I thought you hated him,” she said, scrambling to gather her thoughts, to figure a way of out this situation, and yet unable to turn her eyes away from Bellamy, from so much beauty and strength on display before her. This was wrong, and yet—

“Hate him?"

She couldn't look away

“No...no, Wanheda. I might dislike him, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him, all the same.”

Clarke felt a stab of some hot emotion, much like jealousy, lodge in the base of her throat.

“Just like it never stopped you, whenever you set eyes upon the Heda, Clarke of the Skaikru," he added softly, almost...sympathetically.

Clarke closed her eyes, fighting the vision that rose before her, of Lexa’s curved, luminous eyes, her full mouth...

Roan pulled her closer, pressing his nose into the curve of her neck and breathing deeply. Clarke shuddered when he rocked her forward with another tight roll of his hips, his erection sliding deeper into the crevice between her thighs. She felt her pussy tighten in response to its weight and heat.

“I don't," Clarke struggled to form a reply, “I d-don’t know what you mean.”

Roan raised his head from her shoulder, and bent forward, closer to her face. His blue eyes, burning cold but terribly lovely, peered deep into hers, searching, direct. He sought her secrets there, where they were buried deep, and as hard as she tried Clarke couldn't conceal them, not from that cunning, penetrative study. She was open to his searching gaze, unguarded, and his smile widened when he found what he was looking for, his gaze dropping eagerly to her mouth.

“Yes, you do,” he countered, bending forward and pressing his lips to the curve of her mouth in a soft, reverent kiss. He repeated the action over and over again, pulling at her bottom lip with gentle little sips. “We are very alike, Wanheda. We love what we love, and want what we want,” he paused, as if shy, suddenly uncertain about what he was going to reveal, finishing in a reverent whisper. “Man and woman both...”

Yes. It was true. True of them both, after all.

"And _that_ one," Roan glanced pointedly at Bellamy, "so hard and so pretty, is what I want."

His hand dipped lower, sliding down into the hollow of her thighs to cup her pussy in one large hand. "Just as much as I want you, Lady Death." Clarke gasped, opening her thighs automatically, seeking the friction he promised with his ready touch.

The Ice King groaned softly at her sudden consent and gripped her tight, pulling her whole body upward and lifting her to her toes with the force of his considerable strength. Clarke moaned at the sudden pressure, the heat and firmness of his hand, rocking against his grip.

Roan slipped his hand over her mouth, stifling the sound.

“Shh,” he admonished. “Not so loud, little Wanheda, or he will hear us.” He started to rock his hips against her ass in a slow, grinding rhythm, his breath heavy and hard against her neck. “And we don’t want that, do we?” he asked a moment later, biting down gently on the curve of her shoulder.

He began to stroke her pussy through her clothes, two fingers tracing the cleft of her labia from top to bottom, pausing at the end of their journey to press upward and inward, circling her hole with his fingertips. He started to chuckle softly against her shoulder, suddenly amused, "no, no we don't." His voice deepened with pleasure and satisfaction. He gestured again towards Bellamy. "Not now, not when he’s over there tugging on that fat, pretty cock, looking like he’s desperate to come...”

"Look." He commanded, his whispered voice rough with lust. " _Look at him_!" 

Clarke, gasping and trembling from his bold touch, opened her eyes, startled and exhilarated at his words. Did he mean that Bellamy was—that he was—her eyes widened when they found him again, and saw that what he’d said was indeed true. Bellamy, it seemed, was done with his bathing, and now he stood in the fading light of the dying sun, body glistening with water and sweat as he gripped his erection between his hands. Head thrown back, he was pulling on the length with quick, urgent strokes.

"Oh my god, he's...he's" she was startled at the rush of heat that swept through her when she saw what Bellamy was doing. Her arousal gathering and circling until it found the center of that wet, pulsing pace between her thighs. She whimpered softly at the tight, urgent contraction deep within her.

Roan grunted in agreement, his breath coming heavy and fast behind her.

"Yes he is, isn't he? Have you ever see anything so beautiful?"

Oh god. This was wrong, wasn't it? Wrong enough to stand here and ogle him, but even worse now that he was masturbating. It just wasn't...right.

But god, Roan was right. She'd never seen anything more beautiful than Bellamy lost to his own pleasure. His wild hair falling into his eyes, his mouth opening and closing at the jolt of sensation that each sharp stroke brought him. Framed as he was in golden light and the approaching gloom of dusk, the lines of his lean, athletic body stood out in shape relief, the cords of his neck taut with tension, the tendons and nerves in his forearms sharply defined, flexing and contracting as he used his strong grip to pleasure himself.

“Bellamy…” Clarke moaned, unable to take her eyes away, "oh god..." helpless now, watching him greedily as she rocked her hips against the strong pressure of Roan’s fingers, instinctively biting down on his finger when it swept over her mouth to silence her.

“ _Yeah_ …” Roan gasped, “like that, don’t you? Like it when he tugs on his cock? Do you think he’s thinking of you?”

Clarke felt her pants flood with a sudden warmth and wetness at the thought, the thought of Bellamy wanting her that way, the same way she wanted him at this very moment. She moaned, pulling Roan’s finger into her mouth to suck on it, tasting salt, and dirt, and flesh between her teeth.

“Want to suck that cock, don’t you?” Roan continued, rocking hard and fast against her ass now, his breath coming in heavy, staggered gusts. “He’d return the favor, you know." His tone grew deeper, darker. "He likes to use his mouth—oh gods, his _mouth_ —” Roan shuddered violently then, groaning and burying his face into Clarke’s shoulder, his hips rocking erratically now, distracted by his own words, apparently caught in his fantasy.

Clarke stilled then and let him seek his pleasure, but continued pushing back against his hips each time her pushed against her ass, egging him on. Soon he was groaning hard, stifling the sound of his orgasm by burying his face in her neck, grinding to a finish in ragged, sloppy thrusts against her ass.

She said nothing as she let him come down, startled by the force and swiftness of his orgasm. She'd had an inkling, but no true idea of the Ice King's attraction for her partner, her co-leader. Her best friend.

“H—how?” Clarke asked, when it seemed he had calmed, curious, and suddenly very, very jealous at the though of the two of them together. “How do you know?”

Roan chuckled, pulling his hand from between her thighs and reaching for the buttons of her pants, tearing them open in short order. Without ceremony her thrust his fingers into her wet folds, groaning at the feel of her ready heat, muffling the sound against her shoulder. He started to stroke her almost immediately, plunging two fingers past her tight entrance and deep inside, curling them upward and forward, finding that perfect spot.

Clarke moaned, rocking her hips mindlessly, barely able to form a sentence now she was caught in the throes of her own pleasure, seeking greater and greater friction, riding Roan’s strong hand with all the force her hips would allow within the tight circle of his hold. He stiffened two fingers and began to rotate them, circling the edge of her hole with firm, broad strokes. Clarke gasped, squeezing his hand between her thighs. 

"H-how do you know?" She repeated, watching Bellamy's movements greedily now, unable to tear her eyes away. 

"Followed him, two nights back,” Roan answered softly, watching her react as he plunged his fingers in and out of her, offering her a counterpoint to her thrust. “He left camp in the middle of the night, went back to that little red head at the trading post…”

Oh.

 _Her_.

Clarke remembered her. That one that wouldn’t stop looking at Bellamy like he was steak and she was starving. 

Not that she’d cared.

“I saw them,” the Ice King continued, warming to his tale, "saw how he went after her, had her down on the floor as soon as he got her, nose buried deep in her cunt, and he ate her for nearly an hour, and she sobbed and screamed and came over and over, and _still_ he wouldn’t stop.”

Clarke stifled her cries, moaning soundlessly, her head falling back on Roan’s shoulder, her mouth opening and closing as he pulled his fingers out of her cunt to circle over her clit in fast, tight strokes. She could see it so clearly in her mind. Knew it would be true, because it was just like him. Dogged, determined, tireless.

“And when he was done,” Roan’s voice was hushed, rapt in the memory of what he'd witnessed, “he pulled her legs over his shoulders and fucked her open beneath him, and she came again when he was balls deep. What a sight that was, little  
Wanheda. To watch that tight, pretty ass as he pounded into her. I wanted to do the same to him, fuck him open," his voice dropped and deepened at the thought, "oh _gods_ , yes I did…”

And he had, but his ardor, however strong, was quelled when he realized that Bellamy hadn’t come, not once. When he’d pulled out of that grateful, sobbing girl his cock had still been heavy, fat with come, unspent and locked within him. And the look on his face…

Angry. Not at the girl, but himself. Because he hadn’t enjoyed it, no matter how hard and vigorously he’d fucked that girl. And Roan had been confused. Because it was obvious that he'd wanted it. He'd worshiped that wet pussy with an eager, greedy mouth, but despite that it was like he hadn't wanted her after all, that girl. He hadn't truly wanted her, because she wasn’t the right one.

The right one, he now realized, was draped over his shoulder, swaying and rocking her hips against his hand, close to orgasm, her lovely face reddened and wound tight.

“Look, look at him,” Roan pleaded suddenly, knowing it was true, “he’s thinking of you, right now, and he wants you. He wants you _badly_ , my little Wanheda…”

Clarke lifted her head and opened her eyes, finding Bellamy with her gaze at once, helpless to look away. It couldn’t, couldn’t be true.

“No…he doesn’t…can’t…”

Bellamy started to jerk and stiffen, his hand moving fast over his turgid flesh, a low groan building and gathering strength behind his teeth.

She watched as he started to shake, his body jerking hard and fast, like it was coming apart in a million pieces. " _Clarke_ ,” he groaned suddenly, spectacularly, the sound carrying easily in the quiet, before he fell to his knees, shuddering and spurting in the cold brown water of the river. "Fuck...fuck... _Clarke_."

And just like that, Clarke followed him, her orgasm tearing through her with a sudden, violent force, shattering and falling apart against Roan’s shoulder, her whole body rocking against his in wave after wave of pleasure, release.

"That's it...that's it, _gods_ , your pussy smells so good."

A ragged whine tore past her teeth as another wave rocked through her.

Roan held her fast, so that she felt like she was flying, even though she was coming apart, dissolving.

Some time later, while her heartbeat was still pounding hard in her ears, Roan gently lowered her to her feet, helping her sit down at the base of the tree to gather herself. He continued to watch as Bellamy dressed and checked his weapon, pausing every now and then to gaze contemplatively at Clarke as she breath slowed and her body cooled. 

“I'll go back first," he announced, "tell him something to cover your absense." 

His gaze was tender, sympathetic, and yet tinged with heat all the same. "Clean up, Wanheda, gather yourself,” he said to her. “And I’ll see you back at camp.”

Clarke only nodded.

“We have a long way ahead of us.”

She nodded again. She looked over at Bellamy, dressed now, hair still wet from the river. Despite what she had just witnessed, what had been revealed to her, she knew that he’d never approach her, never reveal what he wanted, not unless she somehow gave him a sign, something concrete to show that she returned his desire, and that she would answer to it. But she was afraid, so afraid, to even start.

Yes, they did have a long way to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and rewritten on 5-16-16 with a touch more smut and more nuance (I hope) than before.


End file.
